The Impossibility of Ghosts and Their Counterparts
by ghoul-lishly
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has never been stumped on a case. But as London experiences a growing problem with brutal murders, with no clear leads and no answers, he starts getting angry at his lack of obvious deductions. Finally, two familiar siblings, an angel and a demon arrive on scene, and start revealing a strange and illogical new world, one where evils are brewing.
1. Of the Winchesters

Sherlock Holmes was a proud purveyor of the logical. If something seemed illogical, he'd pick and pry until it's gooey innards were revealed for his examination. Simplicity in complexity was something he valued—for every conundrum, there were equal and opposite answers. His principles, in a sense, were entirely reliant upon the immediate logical answers before him. It was this principle that had helped him solve numerous cases, and it was the same principle that he held to the highest standard.

There were times when this principle was tried to its most absolute limits. The Dean Winchester Case was a tried and true example of this, and it was difficult to test his theories when he wasn't certain if the primary suspect was dead or alive. The international community had caught wind of the head-scratcher when Dean's corpse was found in St. Louis. He'd been torturing women for a few weeks, when he was shot suddenly by the police. He died, was buried in a nondescript cemetery with a generic headstone and no service. His brother had disappeared, and the case faded into obscurity. It would've remained the same too, despite its brutality—if Dean Winchester hadn't miraculously showed up alive, surprisingly unharmed for taking a bullet to the brain. His sibling was in tow, and unsurprisingly, he was at the head of another crime scene.

The police force had exhumed 'Dean's' corpse, and found something of an oddity. The patterns of decay were something unseen by the community, and it became known as the Winchester effect. Scientists had been at wit's end trying to replicate the effect in labs, but with little luck and dying patience. After all, the dermis was not supposed to decay in several layers, many of which with different genetic origins. They'd found Pacific-Islander layers of skin, West African layers of skin, and on the surface, Caucasian layers of skin. Dean's corpse was linked to every possible genetic race on the U.S. Census.

In Milwaukee, a bank robbery was taking place, after a string unsolved thefts that should've been impossible. Task Forces identified the armed and dangerous Winchesters, who told the police to stick it where the sun don't shine for three hours approximately. It was the first time any of the thieves had been caught in action, though from the get-go the case was different. One Ronald Reznick entered and closed the building with locks, claiming to be stopping a shapeshifting droid-whereupon he and the Winchesters, already inside the building, began their scheme.

Then, one of their hostages-he was an asthma sufferer-was having health problems, and he was assisted outside by Dean, one of the very 'criminals' who kept him in. That was perhaps the most human touch of the entire ordeal—the intense desire to _help_ people presented by the Winchesters.

There _were_ several hostages murdered, but Sherlock ran the figures, the alibis, the eyewitness accounts. The perhaps most exhausting part of that phase of investigation was the time table he painstakingly put together, the one that solidified the Winchester's innocence, of all things. It seemed someone else was attacking the hostages, and the siblings thought it was as good a time as any to contain it, despite the stakes.

Sherlock had figured Dean and Sam were there trying to stop someone from hurting people. That thus explained why the remaining hostages were sealed safely in a bank vault, and why they later claimed the siblings weren't _bad,_ despite the situation they found themselves in. The entire time people were sealed in that bank, it was like a real-life and far more demented version of the game CLUE.

SWAT later stormed the building, and despite the semi-automatic weapons, fearsome training and killer instinct, the Winchesters _escaped._ Thus, the mystery was alight again, and that's when Sherlock had first smelled something fishy. Time and time again the brothers had given the police the slip simply because of…nothing. That was the ultimate problem. Why, if the brothers were so inherently 'evil,' were they so easily released?

And that was Sherlock's crowning deduction. The brothers convinced those prosecuting them to release them. Every time they'd been arrested, it was because of a murder, or a theft, or a suicide they were seemingly _investigating,_ albeit illegally. Every time they were released, it was typically because one of these cases was somehow _solved,_ despite their situation.

Oh, Sherlock was positive they needed jail time. Of that he was completely and totally certain, but what he didn't agree with were the murder charges. Credit card fraud, speeding, petty thievery-yes, he agreed. They were generally shady characters, with some frowned-upon tendencies, but it didn't necessarily mean they were convicted criminals.

After the bank incident, they'd been caught for minor infringements, and then identified. A few days later, the female police officer who detained them testified that they'd escaped in a standoff where her partner ended up dead—she shot him out of self-defense, of all things. When he died, police cover-ups were revealed by the same officer, no less, and the Winchesters again escaped scot-free. They later turned themselves into a jail that was having trouble with inmate deaths, once more having zero problem of escape.

Again and again the siblings were seemingly absolutely _screwed,_ and then they'd tuck tail and escape. The number of times they'd pulled off the stunt couldn't be counted on one hand. It couldn't be counted on two.

The cases interested Sherlock to such a degree that he was tempted to call Victor Henrikson, the officer that proceeded the Winchester case. That is, had he not died. The Winchester trail went cold in Monument, Colorado, when a gas main exploded tragically, killing everyone inside the building. An incredible fifty plus were dead, because for some unidentifiable reason, the confused townsfolk had gathered there overnight. All that remained were sets of charred bones, sulfur concentrations, and heaps of blackened rubble. The heat produced by the explosion shouldn't have been able to melt flesh-Sherlock deduced that something else was the source of the flames. The Winchesters, however, were unfortunately among the heaps of skeletons.

Sherlock fell into a bit of a haze after that—just a _little_ more evidence to solve his hobby case would be enough, a little bit more time with the facts... The resources on the Winchesters dwindled when the world started having problems with inconceivable sprees of violence, sickness, and deadly natural disasters. Convents of nuns slaughtered, schoolchildren killed, rape and murder abundant. The only one who was seemingly interested in the Winchesters anymore was Sherlock.

He was disappointed, beyond any perceivable scale. Certainly didn't have the funds, qualifications or general means to investigate in America, and his hobby case was growing cold. The States had been too swamped with crime, pestilence, and violence to even think of Sherlock's favorite Winchesters. He'd tucked away his cork board of evidence, photos, and testimonies for a rainy day, and continued on with the motions. The motions eventually included Moriarty, who was far more exhausting than Sherlock could've ever accounted for.

Today was seemingly the rainy day, in the very much literal sense. He'd taken out the discarded piece of wood and plastic, leaning it against the couch and taking to the rocking chair in order to stare at it. His hands rested on his chin, blue eyes scanning every detail of the board, sometimes flitting to his violin, whereupon he'd shake his head and continue his examination. The violin was too loud- he needed to envelop himself in the crime scenes again, envision himself among the victims. John, dirty with rain and soaked with exhaustion walked up the flight of creaky wooden stairs that led to the flat, twisted the knob, and then glanced at his friend, sighing audibly when he saw what toy he'd taken out.

"I thought this case had gone cold forever ago," said John, looking at Sherlock as he wrestled off his coat, "thought you'd lost faith in it. I mean, you shoved the bloody thing under your bed, stepped on one of the thumbtacks once. Tea?"

"No, thank you. And John, _you'd_ think the case is cold," Sherlock remarked, sighing and closing his eyes, "it's that no one else has bothered to look any further than the surface evidence. I'm positive that the Winchesters are innocent of at least seven of the murders they're accused of. Maybe more, but I'd need to see the crime scenes for myself, the important details that such incompetent police forces continually ignore."

"And they've been dismantled for a few years now," John continued, setting the kettle under the sink and filling it, pausing when a thought occurred to him, "Sherlock, have you moved all day?"

 _"It's raining, John._ This is my rainy day case and I'm making some serious progress, so… no, no, _that's impossible…"_ Sherlock blinked, then continued, "sorry, train of thought. Where was I? Oh yes, serious progress," Sherlock said, absentmindedly leaning towards his violin.

"You haven't moved, then. I was in the _rain,_ Sherlock, working with the police, and you're here talking to yourself," John growled, staring at the detective as he picked up his instrument case, "Lestrade is in knots, you know. The cases are brutal, unprecedented, and completely random. He has no idea what to make of the new murders, and he could really use your help."

"I'm sure he does need my help," said Sherlock, fine-tuning his violin before tucking its rest under his chin, "any reasonably normal police officer needs my help. If it's a cannibal problem my diagnosis is psychopath, and that's all you're getting for now. _John,"_ Sherlock said, pausing his song and staring at him intensely, _"I'm thinking."_

"...So you want me to get out, then," John said, staring at his friend incredulously, "and it's bloody _raining."_

"The tea will be bitterly cold, but the taverns warm," Sherlock said giving his friend the one weak smile he could manage, "maybe you'll enjoy it. Don't have too much fun, you might hurt yourself."

"Shut up," John muttered, turning off the stove and grabbing his wet coat and umbrella, "I'm going for a drink, then."

* * *

Sherlock was right, the taverns were plenty warm. John managed to find shelter in a relatively near one only a few blocks from his flat, stuffed with bodies watching rugby or football. It seems that they too sought shelter from the rain, and as John entered, a cheery bell rung out and the chatter picked up volume, if for a moment. Blinking at the restaurant's golden light, (very different from its gray counterpart outside,) John mustered up the strength and pushed his way through the throngs of people.

The tables were absolutely packed, with people playing loose-hand games of cards, and a few rowdy groups participating in an array of drinking games, but he saw a lone seat at the bar and made a beeline towards it. He was lucky at all to find a seat in this crowd, especially one so close to the bartender. Pulling off his jacket, which was sticky from both rain and sweat, he set it on the stool and then sat on top of it. The man on his left was sipping scotch from a glass, and the man on his right was red-faced and clearly beyond comprehensive conversation. John leaned towards the patron on his left, hoping to speak without yelling. Said man just eyed him with a sense of arrogance, and took another sip.

"You weren't saving this seat for anyone, were you?" John asked, adjusting the leather beneath him before leaning into the bar.

"No mate," the man said, setting down his glass, "you're fine."

There was an awkward bout of silence, and John turned away from the man. Waving, he caught the attention of the bartender and ordered himself a pint, staring at the amber-gold liquid for a moment before taking a few big, satisfying gulps. He tried to pay attention to a game of rugby on the television behind him, but he was uninterested and turned back to the bar.

How long had it been since he'd drunk like this? More than a few times after Sherlock had supposedly died, but his goal was to drink away any memory of the incident and sleep easy for once. No, it had been awhile since he was among men, among fellow bar-goers who were here to revel in the simple joy of alcohol, without being _completely_ drunk. No human seemingly liked the inability to think, but loosening up was never an issue.

John added taking Sherlock to a bar and getting him completely wasted to the list of things he needed to do.

He downed the last sip of his drink, raising his hand for another. He sighed and looked to the left again, at the seemingly cocky man with the now replenished glass of scotch.

"Hey, I'm John," he said, holding out his hand, "thanks for letting me take a seat. Tell me, that smells good—what brew, if I might ask?"

"People call me Crowley," the man said, shaking his hand firmly, "and this blend is Craig. Tasty, but strong. Too much and you'll stumble home too drunk to know your hands from your feet."

"Alright," John laughed, using the lull in conversation to take another sip of his refilled drink, "tell me, what do you do for a living?"

Crowley eyed his now empty glass, sighing. "Management. CEO, if you will. It's a real pain sometimes, but very rewarding, if you're not on its business end, that is. Been with the company for a long while, so it was about damn time I got a promotion."

"Really? That's great, man," John said, suddenly noticing how sharply dressed the man beside him was, "how big is the company?"

Crowley chuckled. _"Big._ Very big mate, we've got a pretty large consumer service base. A majority of people'll go through us at some point or another."

"Nice, nice. How's the economy been? Hope times haven't been too tough, always saddening when companies close, though you're fortune five hundred from the sounds of it, trouble shouldn't have been too bad," John remarked, taking a swig of ale, "your accent—is that Scottish I hear?"

"Born and bred. As for the economy," Crowley said, glancing at John, "you wouldn't believe the poor saps who come to us for help. It's honestly pathetic, but I'm not complaining. Closing deals has been easier than ever," Crowley said, twisting a gold ring on his thumb-John only saw a skull before the band was rotated, "What about you? How do you bring in money for the missus?"

"No missus, though I sometimes wish, knowing who I share an apartment with," John said, taking a long drink, "real pain sometimes."

"Flatmate?"

"Yep. Difficult as is too with the line of work, but I sometimes want to strangle the man," John joked, eyeing Crowley, "never be a flatmate with a sociopath detective. I've been dragged on so many crazy cases, you wouldn't even believe."

"I'm sure," Crowley responded simply, staring at the glass in his hand, "sounds like a bad romance sitcom, from what I've heard alone."

"Yeah…" John said, staring at nothing in particular, until his mind focused, "wait, _no,_ God no. Not like that at all. We're just in the same line of work, is all."

"Hm," said Crowley, staring at John devilishly, "I'm sure that's all, Dr. Watson. Well," Crowley said, clicking open a pocket watch and eyeing the digits, "I've been called. See you around."

"Good luck," John said absentmindedly. He was too busy thinking about what Crowley said to properly wave goodbye. Setting down the glass, he began gathering his things and tugging the sleeves of his jacket back onto his arms.

Pulling out his phone, he began circulating through the content of his blog. Nothing revealed any particular clues as to what John was looking for, and when he started looking for key phrases nothing showed up either. He was not only growing more and more suspicious of this 'Crowley' character, but more and more wary of exactly what he was putting on the internet. Because two things were now certain—never once had he put 'sociopath detective' on his blog, nor had he ever posted a picture of his unshaven self. Dr. Watson, despite having no formal detective training, could certainly deduce that 'John' was a fairly common name, and that his surname wasn't any particular anomaly either.

So how did a company big-wig such as Crowley figure out who he was? Because John was fairly certain that he never introduced himself with his last name.

* * *

When John arrived home, he threw off his jacket and pulled open his laptop. Shoving a jar of dyed human spleen and blood samples aside, he plugged in the device's charger and waited for it to boot up. Something about Crowley made him anxious, a sort of anxious that he could only explain in military terms. It had been so long since he had felt this way too, thus explaining why he took awhile to identify the feeling.

But for some reason, it felt like John Watson was being _hunted._ Predator-prey style hunting, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Something about Crowley made a small part of his instincts deeply, deeply afraid, he mused.

When the infernal machine finally was properly running, John opened a browser and default search engine, then typing in 'crowley.' John expected a Facebook, LinkedIn, something—Crowley was a _business man,_ after all— but there was a surprising amount of _nothing._ He supposed Crowley might have been a nickname, but that didn't make any sense either, at least to John. If you were the owner of a business, wouldn't it be instinct to introduce yourself professionally, for the sake of future customers?

He might not have been Crowley's targeted audience, but something about him doubted that also. Crowley mentioned a large consumer base. Surely John was included in at least a few of the demographics that he targeted.

Searching the name alone produced an odd Wikipedia article on a man named Aleister Crowley, an English occultist in the early 1900's who believed in the practice of magick. He was quite the old (racist and anti-semitic) bat, it seemed. He was trying to found his own religion, of which he claimed to be the true prophet. John quickly moved on from that article. The Crowley he met didn't seem to be involved in the dark and underground at all. He came across as too _normal,_ of all things.

When he looked beyond the initial search results, he started coming across a few random people, but none of them fit the description of Crowley. Diane Crowley on Instagram, Jason Crowley on Twitter—none of them were right. None of them were _the_ Crowley.

Finally, he moved on from that search term. Instead, he typed in 'crowley company,' and thinking he had hit the jackpot, John was again disappointed to see nothing relevant. The Crowley shipping company was having a nice stock value increase, as was the Crowley grocer chain—known for their exotic fruits. The Crowley digital imaging company was well off, it seemed. Apparently, there was a Crowley County in Colorado, and it's youth detention facility was a thing to marvel at.

The hot, steaming pile of complete garbage left a sour taste in his mouth. The water in his hand had grown lukewarm, the cup of ramen noodles before him was now limp and flavorless. Leaning back from the table, John groaned and massaged his temples. He would ask Sherlock for help—except that Sherlock would surely laugh at him for even trying.

There were lots of Crowley's, but only one very mysterious _Crowley._

Finally, in a last desperate attempt to find anything relevant, John searched 'crowley black suit,' and waited for the computer to load the results. Surprisingly, Google was empty. The page had no findings, not even advertisements, and all John could see was text under the search bar. His computer screen flickered for a moment, which was odd, but not frightening unless you saw the one suggestion.

 _'Did you mean:_ ** _black devil_** _?'_

As soon as he mumbled the result aloud, confusedly, mind you, his computer fizzled to darkness. Despite his adamant button-pushing and the tip he used consistently—charging it— the computer had no reaction. After thirty minutes of angry cursing, shouting and general stomping about, the computer flickered back to life, all data completely reset from its hard drive, the factory settings restored.

John was now annoyed. He'd had future blog posts typed out, he'd had emails ready to send, and he'd had the murderer profile information Lestrade had lent him open and ready for examination. This hunt had proved unsuccessful, and John had just about enough. He closed his computer and went up to bed, all but forgetting about the man named Crowley.

* * *

 **Edit:** I apologize profusely for a lack of new chapters. I'm currently on the returning leg of a vacation that had spotty wifi and little privacy with which to write, so I instead strengthened the rather weak first chapter when I got the chance. The second one is slowly but surely being turned out, and I'll update more regularly once I get home.

This takes place sometime after season two of Sherlock but before Moriarty makes his second debut, and sometime after the Apocalypse in Supernatural. Sam isn't soulless in this fic, though it will be mentioned periodically.

Thank you for your patience and reviews.


	2. London After Midnight

"The carburetor is fine, the engine checks out, headlight bulbs have been changed, license plates switched, upholstery scrubbed, the vents are cleaned—save for that lego, which you're insistent on keeping in the car—and the oil has been replaced. Anything else?" Sam asked, wiping his forehead and smudging it with a trail of oil.

"I did the tough parts, you did the pansy jobs. We're all good here," said Dean, sliding from underneath the belly of his car, "ain't that right, Baby?"

"Okay, sweet. You're the grease monkey here, but I'm glad you let me help," Sam said, pulling his brother to his feet and grabbing a dusty car cover, "really sorry about that whole shojo incident. I didn't mean to get the car totaled."

"I beat the everloving shit out of you for it Sammy. I think we're gonna wax her before we put on the cover, though…" There was the faintest sound of fluttering wings, overpowered by Dean's chatter. He whirled around to put away a stained wrench when he saw an angel before him. _"Cas, Jesus!"_

"Dean, I am not the Son of God," The angel said, quirking one of his perpetually folded brows in confusion. "Regardless of my title, I do need your help with something."

Dean half-hazardly tossed the wrench into the tool box, grabbing a few unsightly rags and throwing one to Sam. He picked up a small can of car wax and rubbed some of it onto the cloth, rolling the canister under the car to his brother.

"Shoot," Dean mumbled, scrubbing the wax onto the driver's side door.

"There's been trouble with necromancy and demons in London. I would ask Bobby to call his contacts but there's been issues," Cas said, navigating around the corner of the car.

"And what are the issues?" Sam asked, grunting with effort. Why was Dean so damn good at all this car stuff? It took him fifteen minutes to get one _spot_ out.

"Every hunter in the area was targeted and killed. The corpses were cannibalized by a combination of werewolves, gwyllgi and other undesirable things, and then marked as blood sacrifices to an unknown entity. Demons are the murderers in some instances, but I have been unable still to locate the source of these problems," Cas said, stepping backwards as Dean stood up, "though the presence of gwyllgi suggest that a darker branch of Avalon is revealing itself."

"You choking on something? What the hell's gwilsh-gee?" Dean asked.

"It's like a fairy hellhound," Sam said, peeking over the hood of the Impala, "it's from Wales."

"There's fairy hellhounds?" Dean said, inkling of fear evident, "why the hell, out of all the normal creatures, did fairies choose to have their own version of _hellhounds?"_

"If only to scare the shit out of you," said Sam, snickering, "and that is a good enough reason alone."

"You shouldn't be so relaxed about this," Castiel said, "good hunters are dead. There's an entire city that's being guarded by no one, and a lot of people are dying unnecessarily because of it… and one of my sisters has disappeared there. She was loyal and kind, and now un-locatable."

"I'm sorry about her Cas, but I don't see how that's my problem," Dean said, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans, "I mean, I feel bad, I do. But we're not in London, and we don't know what we're up against. The Apocalypse, Cas, it was clear-cut. Sammy and I knew exactly what the end game was for the majority of the whole deal," Dean avoided eye contact with the clearly upset being before him, "this reeks of something nasty that Heaven or Hell should be dealing with," the man continued, again grabbing more wax to continue his quest, "and this time, I don't want a part of it."

"Dean that was-" Sam interjected, looking towards his brother before being interrupted.

"How… could you be so _ignorant and self-absorbed?"_ The angel muttered, before slipping off once more.

Dean paused—Cas's comment had stung a little. He wasn't some pretty-boy angel, his life was reliant on alcohol, women, his brother, and perhaps only second to Sam was a good hunt. It was his gateway drug, and he had the most bitter of relationships with it. One moment, hunting is rewarding, and the next, he's dragged through Hell and back simply for participating in the sport. But being ignorant was a push—ignorance is refusal to accept what's obviously presented before you.

* * *

Even if it's a vampire or bloodthirsty spirit.

For the remainder of the day, Dean performed minor services on his car. It was a distraction, there was no denying it, but Castiel had introduced a conundrum of a moral dilemma. Were hunters really _ignorant?_ Dean figured that they certainly knew how to appreciate the small things in life—a cold beer with friends, sitting in a field of soft crabgrass as rain began to fall, a short miniskirt on a damn gorgeous waitress. That was, perhaps, finding solace in the material things in life.

Ignorance? Definitely not.

The asshats who paraded around saying things such as finding happiness in 'love' and 'rainbows' with a dashing side of 'fluffy cloud' and 'joyful hummingbirds' were arrogant and sheltered. They'd never shoved their hands into the deep end of a murder case, they'd never had to kill a child because they were a rugaru who'd been too hungry for their own good. Finding happiness in the material things was a happiness. It's value wasn't decreased because he wasn't spending his happiness on morally wholesome family time, it was a joy for those who knew of real turmoil.

He wanted to save his ass, and he wanted to protect Sam. It wasn't a ludicrous request, he was _family._ Family was a bitch that nipped you in the butt, but Sam was the supposed 'real' happiness Dean had. Now, he didn't know if he liked or hated that fact. He'd been betrayed, he'd been hurt, he'd been killed— _he'd been to Hell._ But he still loved his sibling. After all they'd been through together, the pain, the fear, the uncertainty—even if they hadn't been siblings by blood, with their lives, they'd definitely still be brothers. If not with blood, then with bond.

Would they still be considered ignorant, though? He didn't think that. So what, he didn't want to get involved with another possible world-ender. He just didn't have the patience for it, the stamina for it, the guts for it. The Apocalypse was exhausting, painful, and draining. He'd cried and wished for death so many times over the course of the ordeal that he knew he didn't have the patience for another. Again, he and Sam would still be played like bargaining chips if another apocalyptic scenario arised. Lucifer and Michael _would_ be eventually released, and knowing Sam and Dean's luck, probably within their lifetime.

He couldn't think of a single thing to do to his car anymore. His Baby was sparkling, spotless, and entirely unhelpful in making Dean feel settled.

He marched out of the half-silo Bobby had provided him for his car, (not after covering it, and kissing the vehicle goodnight,) and headed towards the house. The porch steps still creaked when Dean stood on them, which was a subtle comfort, and the door was still black and looming. When Dean popped into the kitchen, Bobby was still preparing canned beans and Sam was still nose-deep in a book.

"Sammy, do you want to take on the case?" Dean asked, arms folded as he leaned against one of the home's interior pillars.

Sam blinked and looked up from his book.

* * *

Constance Evans was a normal girl. She had solid grades, a solid reputation and a simple life that she was satisfied with. Her personality was sweet and unassuming, the sort of simple saccharine persona that dripped from every part of her. She was destined for rather an unremarkable life—in the many possible flows that time could take, the only foreseeable future for Constance Evans was a fairly vanilla one. If one could describe her with two words, the first one would be nice, though that was only because Constance was the sort of girl people could walk all over with little effort, and the second would be bland.

Because if one thing should have been clearly presented in the way Constance Evans carried herself, it would be the overwhelmingly obvious sense of 'normal.'

Constance didn't like rainstorms. Constance didn't like the dark. Constance's favorite food was her mother's chicken pot pie. Constance has a tabby cat. People could rattle off random pieces of her simple life that they'd forget as soon as she melted into the faces of strangers they'd met. It was dictated as such, and the girl found herself in no position to argue the natural order of it.

But things _had_ been troublingly odd lately. The sky was now perpetually dark in London, with heavy, uncomfortable rain, and Constance was seemingly enjoying it, for whatever reason. She wasn't turning on the lights in her room anymore, she was hardly eating. Recently, her temper had been getting progressively worse, as well. She was constantly _angry_ now, bitter for reasons her rational side couldn't identify.

She was snippy, lonely, and now, perpetually upset. It was different from her normally sweet, rather tolerable personality. Constance had pulled a one eighty overnight and was completely unaware how unnerved that made everyone around her.

At school, a place once comfortable, the gray-blue hallways started blurring together into a dull mush. The required plaid uniforms, the white ties—with the rain, everything was gray, boring, unassuming and entirely annoying, for some deep unidentified reason. Everything was uninteresting, and it was making her angry. She couldn't identify why, she didn't even care. The apparent lackluster was something upsetting. Constance deserved more. Constance deserved a damn _throne room._

She stomped down the hallway, angry at the ceaseless noise that her classmates were hell-bent on making, angry at the loose and pointless chatter. She grit her teeth at the unsuitable levels of drab, squeezed her knuckles at the monochrome that everyone was fine with.

Someone brushed her arm, and walked on, lost in the crowd.

Constance stopped in the corridor, staring at her leather shoes and the speckled tile, counting to ten in her head before her face grew red-hot. They should have to apologize for touching her—Constance and her actions were _utterly pure._ And they were most certainly _not._ Without thinking, she whirled behind her and snatched the fleeting wrist of the offender, yanking him towards her and sending him crashing to his knees.

A familiar acquaintance stumbled towards her, a boy that she'd spoken to on a few occasions and one she thought was reasonably cute. He grunted as he fell, too preoccupied to notice who tripped him. Constance no longer harbored any sentiment towards him—he was nothing but fodder. Any former affection disappeared within her current expression, red with fury.

 _"You clipped my shoulder, you filthy creature,"_ she hissed, glaring at him so intensely that the boy was concerned for his own wellbeing.

"I didn't mean to, Constance," he said nervously, glancing at his companions who'd formed a semicircle around him, "I mean, the corridor is pretty packed, right? I was just walking," he gasped as she squeezed harder, his wrist creaking under the pressure.

"I don't care if you're the Queen or if the corridor is absolutely _stuffed_ with people. In fact, that just made your particularly pathetic stance on the issue all the less endearing," Constance's face twisted into something sadistic. "This place is so unfit for anyone of my stature, and it _pisses me off._ All you arrogant asses walk around as if you're on the top of the food chain in this tiny little insignificant building. And regardless of it's actual influence on society, you're all simply cynical little juvenile humans with no concept of the reality of things. The reality of things is that you don't matter, that any human constructs don't matter, teenage or otherwise, and that you'll all be feed for the greater good," Constance hissed, eyes flashing as she grasped the boy's wrist.

"Constance, _ow,_ I, Constance, _that really hurts actually,"_ the boy twisted and writhed, attempting to free his wrist. After scrambling for a moment, not even bothering to try and process her speech through the pain, he finally started to panic. _"I have no idea what you're talking about!"_ He cried, trying to release himself.

"You wouldn't, you _ignorant monkey,"_ Constance growled, opening her mouth to speak once more, but not before being interrupted.

 _"I don't even care, just let go of me, you crazy bitch!"_ He yelled, snatching his wrist away and holding the throbbing joint, "I'm sorry, Jesus, but you need to chill, woman. I'm sure as hell not the bloody Queen, but you certainly aren't either. I don't know what your problem is, and I don't want to be a part of it," he said, retreating to the group of friends that had formed around him, glancing at the girl behind him with a combination of fear and disgust.

Something clicked. Constance realized all at once what she was doing, as if her gentler side had been handed the reins just for a moment. With a cry, she stumbled back from the clearing and fell upon her butt, screaming into her palm at the sight of the leather shoes that had infuriated her before. Scrambling backwards, attempting to escape her own feet, Constance landed against a locker and screeched once more at the contact.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" She mumbled, tugging at her messy tresses of hair. "I don't know what's happening!" Constance cried.

People were whispering now, and again, Constance heard the dreaded word—crazy. Crazy Constance, crazy bitch, insane, loony, again and again the words were spoken, spinning around and playing drumbeats in her ears. Everything started blending together again, all of it swirling into a hot crimson and black mess that was terrifying. Constance's vision grew scarlet, and the shadows grew larger with new fangs and talons. Chunks of blonde hair were pulled from Constance's head, and she started screaming at the sight.

Sobs of fear and and shrieks bubbled from her throat, echoing down the hallway in a cacophonous roar. Distant calls of her name were faintly heard, and a primal fear became present in the girl.

 _Whatiftheyhuntme?Whatiftheyfindme?Whatiftheyhurtme?_

Her mind ran in these same, base-instinct circles, until it came to a crashing halt.

 _What if… they kill me?_

"I don't want to see _anyone!"_ Constance shrieked, primordial fear taking over her mannerisms. There was a silence at the outburst, Constance's throaty panting audible to everyone in the hallway, before she cried out once more. At the sound, every lightbulb in the room burst, and the sudden explosion of noise was enough cover for her to slip away, outside into the rain.

She slipped on the marble entry steps, but save for the mishap Constance Evans made it home in one, albeit sobbing piece. She tossed aside her soaked bag, and pulled off her blazer, throwing her shoes into the unlit depths of her bedroom before sprinting into the bathroom. Her parents weren't home until the late evening, so Constance would have some peace.

She stared long and hard at herself in the mirror, at the new tender bald spots on her head and the runny mascara streaks that ran down her cheeks. She noted how red her face looked, how angry she'd been for no reason. It's like someone else had stepped into the controls of her brain and made her do all these… _crazy_ things.

"What's wrong with me?" She whispered again, sliding to her knees and resting her chin on the counter, "what's even happening to me?"

And Constance Evans, a normal girl, started crying. She closed her eyes and cried, for a good long while, sad and scared things that were a reflection of her utter confusion. She didn't think in those moments, just let the tears flow and let herself stare at the blackness of her own closed eyelids. No words were said, no words were needed. They were the cries of a scared little girl who didn't know what to do. When she opened her eyes again, Constance gasped.

Black. God, it was everywhere. It wasn't some haze in her vision anymore—once again she could see normally—but it ran down the cabinetry and pooled on the countertops and sink, running inky and thick down the drain. It dripped onto the plush bathmat beneath her, staining the snowy cloth, and it ran down her sopping clothes. Cautiously, Constance stood up, and stared at her hands, covered with the drippy substance. She looked closely at her fingernails, glancing in the mirror and pausing her inspection at what she saw.

"What the…" she muttered, leaning into the countertop, tenderly touching her cheek and staring at the ichor that ran down it. The substance dripped from her eyes in steady and soft streams, apparently normal tears, save for their oily color.

"It's normal," a voice said, so soft that Constance didn't jump, "your body is fighting back."

Something in Constance wasn't afraid of the new voice, though in that moment her instincts felt repressed. She felt drowsy, like she wasn't on her A game.

Constance glanced in the mirror, unsurprised by the presence of a shadowy woman in it. Her hair and dress floated ethereal waves, like she was underwater. Her features were soft and gray, very much corpse-like, though they were clearly blurred. Of all the things Constance noted, she simply seemed happy to see her. She seemed _happy_ to see Constance. Even after everything she'd done today. Glancing to her sides, she noted that the woman only existed in the reflection.

"What do you want?" Constance murmured, drowsily sitting on the toilet lid and staring at the woman. "Why would my body fight you?"

"I'm trying to become one with you," she said in response, staring at the girl before her inquisitively. "I'm trying to do something right now, something in London that's very important to me. And I've had my coworkers complete the tasks I've asked of them right now, but I need to oversee the rest. It might sound fairly creepy," the woman laughed, tinny bell-like sounds that were pleasant to Constance's tired ears, "but rest assured, you're still you. It is still you being angry, my little monkey, I just added a little extra fuel to the fire of unsatisfaction."

"You're doing something to me," Constance said, blinking lethargically in the direction of the woman, "you're making me insensibly unafraid. You're the one who made me angry, and irrational. Why would I want to let you do that? Become one with me? You're the one who's ruining my life. You're the one who's making everyone think I'm a freak."

The woman sighed. "I understand that, of course my dear. You're Constance, sweet and innocent, _constantly_ the exact, boring same," the woman giggled at her own joke, "and I understand finding solace in that, truly, I do. I was once like you, even—but I _also_ know that isn't really your destiny. Your destiny is with me, and it means that you're meant for great things. Fantastic things! You should be honored. I would've made the decision for you, even—as you said, you are fairly irrational right now, seeing as those are the effects of my presence. But, I made a rookie mistake in the groundwork of my plan. I took a pair of wings, and let's just say that the side effects were… less than pleasant. But Constance," the woman said in a far more serious tone, "I _need_ you right now. You're the only one I have, and without you, I'd be… Lost."

"Why should I let you in?" Constance said.

"Because," the woman said firmly, "I need to finish a quest. People keep hurting me and my friends, and now I can stop it. I can create a haven for us, Constance. We'd worship you, we'd make it so that no one would remember the crazy version of you, the one that isn't the _real_ Constance," she said, "you're a sweet girl, after all."

"That's right. I'm a sweet girl," Constance repeated sleepily, yawning. "And you're so… Honorable… So open… So glorious… I don't even see why I'd reject you… Why… Did… I…"

"That's right again," the figure cooed, "you're right again. Thank you."

Constance was a normal girl, the sort of normal where people could rattle off random facts about her. Constance liked pink, she had approximately two or three good friends, and most notably, Constance disappeared under abnormal circumstances on a rainy London afternoon.

* * *

"We've got a possible suicide jumper, possible fight, sector twelve, London proper. Vehicles on each corner, SWAT unit on the way, police-detective unit Lestrade investigating. Repeat…" A police officer yelled into his car radio, amidst the chaos of the crime scene.

"Honestly," Sherlock hissed, "so _loud._ Hate fights, simply too noisy to think."

John just continued towards the building, ignoring Sherlock's ramblings. After being on the case with such an insufferable man for such a long time, he'd been able to tune out what Sherlock chose to complain about. The only reason that Sherlock was even here was because he was bored again, and since John was the closest marksman, Lestrade had called him in to pull apart the two fighters. The man-baby decided to come along, and John was regretting the decision to allow Sherlock to follow at all.

It was only two people fighting, and though dramatic, it was certainly not Sherlock's sort of case. Something about it was odd, certainly—they were fighting with what appeared to be short silver _swords,_ like miniature, glistening rapiers. Again and again the two fellows would slash at each other, with what appeared to be damaging grazes, but after stumbling for awhile the two would regain their footing and continue. The police units decided to split the fight when they started to drift towards the edge of the roof, threatening below passerby. John was among the first to be called to the roof, a backup unit for when SWAT arrived, just in case things grew too dangerous.

London congestion, after all, was practically eating the armored vehicles. It would be a long time before any proper units arrived. In the meantime, he was making his way to the roof, where he'd observe and be able to shoot from a comfortable distance. Among all the people in the squad, he was the most qualified to do a sniper-like shot, despite being a medical doctor. It simply came with the real-world applicable experience.

Despite his old limp disappearing as soon as he met Sherlock, John could still grumble and groan about marching up twenty or so flights of stairs. By the time he'd trudged to the top, John was irritable and tired. Sherlock was talking off his ear about _something_ or other, Lestrade was attempting to relay mission information, (quite unsuccessfully,) and Donovan was as bitter and unpredictable as always. It was part of the job, but at that point he wasn't in the mood to deal with a couple of squabbling men.

And squabbling they were.

The slashes were even more vicious up close—blood dripping from their wounds in torrents. One man, donned in a tan trench coat and other business-savvy attire, including a sapphire tie and wrinkled suit, furiously countered the aggressive offense his opponent was throwing. There was one feature that made John pause, however. The roof was tight enough, to the point where the squad could distinguish facial features.

Predominantly among them were a pair of pitch-black eyes. Pulsating veins pumped blackness into the skull of one of the subjects, the substance staining the circulatory system and what appeared to be tongue of the victim. The other man—the one previously described as overcoat-clad—was overwhelmed with his fast and quick flurry of strikes. His eyes were wide with some emotion, one Sherlock couldn't even identify, and his entire body was quivering with exhaustion. Cuts and gashes were absolutely everywhere, the wounds red and agitated. As the duo moved, clothes shifted and revealed was appeared to be scorch marks, as if the blades were coated with an acid.

Perhaps most odd, even among the very unusual circumstances presented before them, was the dialogue that could be faintly heard from the other end of the roof. Among them were calls of desperation.

"Brother, please. It's Castiel, we both served under Anna," he panted, "you _have_ to remember, Zadkiel, we believed in you."

The aggressor, apparently named Zadkiel, just grunted and continued the onslaught. He slashed and diced brutally, going a primal and violent route of attack, disregarding his own wounds in favor of hurting this… Castiel.

"Sherlock," Lestrade mumbled, "do you get anything off of these basket cases?"

The detective was silent. "One's clearly beyond comprehensive conversation. Do appreciate their attempt at biblical accuracy, I suppose. Other then that, until I can review my fighting techniques, I can't say anything firmly about them."

"Biblical?" John asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Sherlock sighed. "I'd think that at least one of you bloody idiots has been to church once in your life. Hell, even I've done it a few time, quite begrudgingly might I add," Sherlock said, staring at the duo, "Zadkiel is the name of an angel—it was a clearly Hebrew name, but not in the modern context, and with Castiel being close to the name Cassiel, once again a biblical angel, I can't help but think we're dealing with crazed fundamentalists."

"What?" Lestrade said.

"Crazed fundamentalists, who, might I add are drifting close to the roof's edge. _John!"_ Sherlock yelled, starting to run from behind an air conditioning unit, towards Zadkiel and Castiel.

Castiel, noticing Sherlock and the other civilians, inhumanly quickly ducked under the range of Zadkiel's thrust, grabbing his slashing arm and snapping it, and then plunging his sword into his belly. Zadkiel groaned, body flashing with white light, and stumbled, Castiel further pressing the sword into his gut. Finally, he was about to fall, but grasping Castiel's trench coat he altered his path of travel—and slipped over the roof's edge, with opponent in tow.

 _"No!"_ John yelled, running towards the pair, only to see them plummet.

The entire squad, Lestrade and Donovan included, ran to the roof's edge and sight of the fall, having heard the deafening crash of a body landing on a car. Hopefully a vacant cruiser was hit, and staring over the building's end, they saw something bewildering.

There was only one body, for one thing, atop a police car. And stretching from the corpse was a chalky black outline of _wings._

"What's going on?" Donovan muttered to the squad, eyes wide at the sight.

"I…couldn't say," replied Sherlock.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** The chapter title, London After Midnight, is a reference to a restored horror film of which ghosts are the subject matter. Of The Winchesters, the first chapter title, isn't a reference to anything. From here on out, I'll try to throw an easter egg or two into each chapter. The other one in this chapter is the line 'Constance and her actions were utterly pure,' which is a reference to Satsuki Kiryuin from Kill la Kill.

I apologize this chapter took so long to come out. Constance isn't really an OC, more or less a supporting character. Other Supernatural creatures aren't necessarily canon, but I am doing my research, such as Zadkiel and the fairy hellhounds mentioned earlier. Cassiel is the biblical name for Castiel, (and that has been confirmed by the show's executives.) There will be no OC's in this fic.

Thank you, and I'm happy that you like my story.


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